Bullethead was the most beautifully built scapegoatin the neighborhood. He had lifted weights until hisshort body was massive and proportioned. But he

could not find an exercise system that would make himlikeable. Even the little kids recognized his vulner-

ability. When he passed them, they would interrupt

their games to scream taunts and throw things at him.

Everyone picked on him except his mother, who was

completely indifferent. So friendless and loveless he

went to school, to work in his father's carpenter shop,

then to bed, hoping that tomorrow would bring a friend.

But tomorrow was never compassionate.

Bullethead's parents came from a small village inPoland to mythological America, as millions had come,seeking the dreamer's refuge, freedom, dignity andopportunity. In the little village in which theirfamilies had endured for generations, the local lord,a throwback to the middle ages, would often descendupon them with his servants, relieving them ofwhatever food and money the peasants had managed toaccumulate. Periodically, the Germans would come, andmore frequently, the Russians. When they weren'tafflicted by their lord, the Germans or the Russians,there was always a drought, blizzard, plague, orblight that would test their will to survive.

So finally, Kosta the carpenter and his wife, Magda,a big- armed, moustached woman, took the money theywere saving for their funerals, said a prayer beforethe Icon, and went to the town-clerk and bookedpassage to America. From the moment the money,

wrapped in a greasy, red bandanna, left their hands, aprotective fog settled around them, cushioning them from

the shock of leaving their own land and crossing the sea

to a new land; distant, alien, terrifying.

Kosta was a skinny, callow, swordblade of a man, in

contrast to his wife who was huge and red-fleshed.

Together they were a peculiar looking, unlover-like couple.

On the train to the seaport and then on the smelly, crowded

ship, they were like a truck and a pushcart traveling in the samedirection, akin, but different.

The first few months in New York City did to Kostawhat years of depredation couldn't do to him inPoland. The colossal indifference of the city almostmade him yearn for the communicable touch of thelord's boot, the arrogant sneers of the Germans andthe acquiring hands of the Russians. He had never beendistinguished in his village in Poland, but at leasthe had been talked to and was considered part of thevillage life. But in the new world no one talked tohim, not even 'landsmen', who shunned an obviousgreenhorn. The complete isolation almost succeeded inblotting him out, but he was saved by the birth ofhatred, followed a few months later by the birth ofhis son.

Kosta was much too puny and weak to take vengeance onthe harsh world, so he turned all his hatred on hisson, translating it into punishments that began at anearly age. Kosta's wife, outraged at the abuse of herbaby and ready to squash her twig of a husband betweenirate, reddened slabs of hand, gradually accepted thatage is right and youth is wrong and let her husbandcorrect her son without further complaint.

Kosta and his family moved to Brooklyn during WorldWar II, the year after Poland was overrun by theGermans. He opened a carpenter shop and his lifebecame a secure routine; work and trying to teachStanislaw, his five year- old son, how to be a properman.

Stanislaw, Stanny, for short, was constantly abused. Whatever intelligence he might have had was not boldenough to make an appearance before his father's fistsand curses, so he subsided into dull idiocy. He had abraying, staccato laugh like an agitated donkey thateveryone jeered at. Everything about Stanny eitherirritated people, or made them mock him. He was eitheran obnoxious pest clamoring for attention, or abuffoon performing for a kindless audience. Hepitifully wanted affection, but neither found anyonecompassionate enough to give, nor developed theintelligence, personality or character to get what hewanted.

Life was lonely and unpleasant for Stanny. He went toschool, then came straight home and stayed in thehouse. He tried to go out after school and play withthe other kids, but someone always sent him homecrying. Then his father would invariably say:"A man don't cry," and his father's contempt was worsethan his fists or curses.

So spring changed to summer,autumn to winter and

time passed and Stanny was quietly miserable, until he

was in the seventh grade, when he was twelve years old. Stanny was very short, but he was husky and strong,so the boys in school never picked on him when theywere alone.

One day his class was playing soft-ball in the yard

during physical training. Stanny was playingleft, left field (fat, myopic Milton, of the varicoseankles had advanced to left field), when an easy flyball was hit to him. He only had to open his hands andfold them closed around the ball, but he dropped it.By the time he recovered the ball and threw it intothe infield, two runs had scored. The pitcher, handson hips, turned to him in disgust and yelled, "Jesus,you're dumb."

The demolishing words echoed around the field untilone wit screamed, "He's a Dum-Dum, just like thebullet. You know, the one that they file the head downfor the .45 caliber automatic pistol." But anothertormentor yelled, "No, no, not Dum-Dum, he's aBullethead. That's what he is, a Bullethead." He fledthe schoolyard, pursued by the chanting of,"Bullethead, Bullethead."

And from that day on he was Bullethead to everyonebut his family. Even the girls in the neighborhoodcalled him Bullethead. If his father had spoken enoughEnglish to understand what the nickname meant, hewould have called his son Bullethead.

Stanny graduated from public school without making afriend. (Even fat, four-eyed, varicose-ankled Miltonhad a firm friend in Harry, the snot-nose factory.Though everyone called them the double-ugly alliance).

Without academic or athletic triumph and withoutadmission to the earthly paradise of fumbles in thecloakroom with budding maidens, Stanny didn't learnanything that would help him to be liked in laterlife.

The expanded universe of High School was bewilderingat first to the boys of his graduating class, a classof only ninety-six, who had all been called by firstnames by their teachers and known everyone since the1st grade. The girls adapted much faster. The shockof obscurity was indeed serious and they desperatelysearched for a solution. The less aggressive boysmelted into the High School torrent and then foundtheir places. The hard core of ten or twelve who hadbeen the school leaders refused to accept anonymityand formed a gang.

They selected their own table in the cafeteria, knownfrom then on as the Falcons' table, where no one elsedared sit, except by invitation. The Falcons wentunnoticed by the vast majority of their fellowstudents, except for petty hoods looking for a nest, arival gang called the Bopping Lords, (Bops for short),or the various unlucky students who came into conflictwith them. And Bullethead.

Some dormant instinct awakened in Bullethead at theright moment. He well knew the state of obscurity andrejection, but hadn't learned anything from it, exceptthat he didn't like it. And when he saw the Falconsadrift on the vast ocean of indifference, an ancestralherd impulse drove him to them with perfect timing.The girls in their graduating class had made thetransition to High School relatively smoothly. Whenthey saw their old classmates putting on black leatherjackets instead of school jackets, they began toignore them, except for Patsy Scagliano, who startedwearing a black leather jacket.

Patsy, nicknamed Push, had been straddled by everyone

except Bullethead, (even fat, four-eyed, varicose-ankled

Milton, once) as far back as the sixth grade. Due to the

shortage of appreciative girls, she was warmly welcomed

atthe Falcons' table.

Some of the Falcons were in Bullethead's classes andhe sat near them, without letting them know that hehad gone a-courting. They talked to him, using him asan audience, since they had known him for years and noone else responded to their wisecracks and horseplay.In a daring moment, he appeared at their cafeteriatable and sat down next to Tom-Tom, who constantlytalked to him during home room period and geometry.

The Falcons, uncertain how to treat this boldintrusion, looked at Tom-Tom, who quickly weighed theneed of an audience in his classes and nodded in favorof acceptance. The rest of the Falcons settled backwhen Pony nodded final approval. Although he had wonthe privilege of sitting with them, the Falcons treated

Bullethead no differently than before, as a jerk.

Until the incident with the Bops.

The Bops' table was not too far from the Falcons' andthey would frequently eye each other, challenging, butnot confronting. Nothing more provocative then staringhard had happened yet, because Pony, leader of theFalcons, was on the gym team with the Mouse, leader ofthe Bops. The Mouse specialized in the high-barapparatus and was really good. Broad-shouldered andthin-hipped, he was the epitome of grace when heelegantly soared around and around the bar, doinggiant swings. Pony specialized in the parallel-barsand was heavier and stronger than the Mouse. Theynever talked to each other, but they always nodded ingreeting, which kept their gangs at peace. But tensions

were growing and the rivals passed each otheroften enough, making a clash inevitable.

One day Bullethead got to the cafeteria early. He satat the table waiting for some of the gang, so he couldpush ahead of everybody else on the lunch line, whichhe wouldn't dare do when he was alone. Some of theBops went by carrying lunch trays. One of themaccidently bumped into a girl and spilled a bowl oftomato soup on himself and Bullethead brayed outtremendous hee-haws of laughter, which were greatlyresented.

The Bops wiped their friend with napkins, walked overto the still braying Bullethead and deposited theslimy, red-gore napkins on his short, bristly hair,the red fingers of soup clammily running down hisneck. Bullethead snatched the napkins from his headand threw them at the Bops. They grabbed him andstarted punching him in the stomach. Just thenTom-Tom and some of the Falcons arrived.

Tom-Tom knew that if they helped Bullethead it wouldmean a gangfight, but the Bops were beating Bulletheadup at the Falcons' table. So Tom-Tom grabbed the boywho was hitting Bullethead, spun him around by theshoulder and punched him right in the mouth. He fellacross the table and his friends picked him up andwent back to their table, mumbling about what they'ddo later. The inevitable confrontation had come. Andlike two nations breeding tension from growth andproximity, an incident with a meaningless satellite,reluctantly defended, would lead to conflict.

Tension spread like an earthquake through the school.Only a few minutes after the incident, nothing elsewas being discussed by the students except the comingfight. Some of the girls said that it was disgusting.Some of the boys started talking about their fights.Many students pretended that they weren't at allconcerned with what those hoodlums were doing. But asa bolt of summer lightning flicking across a blue skyarrests everyone's attention for a moment, severalthousand students reacted to the hint of violence withintense interest.

Bullethead pranced to his next class in droolingecstasy. Fame had suddenly kissed his brow and voicesmurmured in the hall as he passed:

"That's Bullethead. He just fought three of the Bopsin the cafeteria."

"He knocked one of them unconscious."

"He's one of the Falcons."

The voices were glorious, golden drops of wine,splashing down a parched throat. Bullethead soaredhigh above his short chunk of a body, basking in thesunlight of notoriety and attention. Only the WorldSeries had seemed to arouse such excitement before andBullethead went to his class as talked about as one ofthe starting pitchers. The daily routine of going toclass was the only thing guiding his feet, because therest of him was far, far away, carried aloft on thegossamer wings of recognition.

He was just nearing his English class when angry

hands abruptly pulled him out of his reverie, into the urine

and ammonia smell of the boy's bathroom. He was face to face

with Pony, Tom-Tom, Phip, Billy and Tommy and they didn't lookfriendly.

"We oughta kick your ass all over the bathroom,"Tom-Tom snarled.

"Take it easy, Tom-Tom," said Pony. "Let's hear whathe got to say."

"Whatta ya expect the moron ta say, besides duh?"

"Well give him a chance. Tell us what happened,Bullethead."

"I didn't do nothing," he babbled, while he quicklythought of an excuse for starting a gang war. "I wassitting at our table, just waiting for the guys. A fewof the Bops came by carrying lunch trays. One of themspilled his soup, then looked at me and said; `Whatthe hell are you looking at punk?' I didn't sayanything to him, but he walked over with other guysand started threatening me. One of them said: `Allthese Falcons would deuce out if they saw a swingoutcoming.' I got mad and said they wouldn't say that toPony or Tom-Tom. Then one of them said that we wasn'tFalcons, we was Sparrers. I said that all the littlerats better go back an play with the Mouse an' theystarted rubbing napkins full of tomato soup on myhead. I threw'em back in one guys face an' they grabbed mean' started punching me an' then Tom-Tom showed up.You guys know the rest. I didn't mean to startanything, but they was insulting the Falcons."

"I guess it's not Bullethead's fault," Pony muttered.

"Those guys were looking for trouble. They mustafigured that we wouldn't help him. Whatta you guysthink?"

"Take it easy Phip an' you too, Nunzio. We're notdoing nothing inside the school. The resta you guyspass the word to the boys ta meet on the front steps,after the eighth period. We'll grab the Bops as theycome out an' beat the shit out of them."

"Do as I say, Phip," Pony ordered. "We'll get themoutside. I gotta go ta class now an' you guys bettergo ta yours. I'll see ya after the eighth period onthe steps and we'll take care of them. Now get going."The Falcons gathered in front of the school at theend of the period and Bullethead was in all his glory.At last he was accepted and he babbled away to all thegang about how he'd get the guy who hit him, untilthey told him to shut up. Phip and Nunzio wereominously quiet, standing apart from the rest of thegang. Pony took Phip's switchblade from him, to makesure he didn't stab anyone. This was the gang's firstrumble and they were all nervous, except for Phip andNunzio, who were too angry, and Bullethead, who wastoo stupid.

By the end of the ninth period, large groups ofstudents had gathered in front of the school to seethe fight. The bell rang three times, piercingly loudand a few moments later hordes of students camepouring through the doors. They widely circled thewaiting Falcons and melted into the crowd. Thewatching students formed an amphitheatre, as inancient Greek tragedy and awaited catharsis. But asspectators they were more suitable for teen-age day atMadisonSquareGarden, rather than the barbarouscruelty of the Roman Arena.

The Falcons fell silent as the doors opened and theBops came out, ready for battle. Pony's idea was tobeat up a few of the Bops to even the score for Nunzioand to plan an all-out rumble later, if necessary. Butthere they were, about fifteen Falcons facing almostas many Bops, with an eager audience of hundreds ofstudents. Teachers were beginning to look out thewindows and ask what was happening outside.... Ponymade a quick decision to postpone the fight andstarted walking towards the Bops alone. The Mouse methim halfway.

"Whadda ya say, Mouse?"

"Nothing much, Pony."

"Look, if we have it out here, the cops'll come an'we'll get thrown outta school."

"Yeah. Where da ya wanta meet then?"

"How about ProspectPark, near the boathouse, at nineo'clock tonight? Twenty guys each."

"Awright Pony. No knives or zip-guns, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll see ya later, Mouse."

The gangs left, cutting narrow separate channelsthrough the crowd. Loud sighs of unsatisfied tensionarose behind them and many voices, shrill andunconvincing, repeated over and over:"Gee, I'm glad they didn't fight."

Bullethead went home delirious with joy. The suddenwave of attention splashed over his dullness like atorrent. The after-school horde of maniacal studentsavalanched onto the buses, screaming, laughing,falling all over the other passengers and squirtingwater-guns at everyone but the tough hoods. Bulletheadwould usually sit by himself, either ignored, orsquirted until he was soaked. Today he swaggered ontothe bus like Atilla the Hun, even yanking a boy out ofa seat with his newly-found power. He babbled, boastedand brayed with laughter, until he made everyone onthe bus sick.

He reached his father's carpenter shop still swollenwith self-importance, threw open the door and struttedin to the tinkle of the door bell.

"Lemme alone, papa. You ain't gonna hit me no more,"he said and picked up a piece of wood. "And if youtry, I'll let you have it with one of thesetwo-by-fours."

"Don't wave that stick at father. You hit father?"

"If you try to hit me again, I will. So keep yourhands to yourself."

His father stood there dumbstruck. Slowly his sonbegan to look like the German officers who would stealhis bread and kick him. He stared at his son until thehigh, black boots blinded him with their bright,arrogant authority. Then he turned back to hisworkbench. He watched his son from the corner of hiseye and the black boots were gone, but his last holdon life, his contempt and abuse of Stanny, was burieddeep inside him, never to come out again.

Bullethead walked out and closed the shop door behindhim, the tiny tinkling bells saying final farewell tohis father. He headed for the Falcons' hangout,Short-arm Louie's candy store. He walked in and withnew-found daring, greeted the proprietor by hisnickname:

"Hi ya, Short-arm. How ya doin'?"

He went to the last booth where Pony, Tom-Tom, Phip,Billy, Tommy and Patsy Scagliano were sitting.

"Siddown, Bullethead," Pony ordered. "Me an' the boyshas been doin' some thinkin'. The Falcons never beenin a real swingout before an' we don't want theyounger guys ta have their first one with the Bops. Sowe decided that you'd swing it out alone with the guythat hit you an' we'll be there to make sure it's afair fight."

"Awright, it's settled. When we go tonight, I'll setit up with the Mouse. Push, you're goin' with ustonight an' you're carrying my zip-gun, just in casethem punks bring artillery. Take off now. I wannatalk ta Tom-Tom. I'll see ya later, on the parkway.And act like it's any other night when we're justhanging around."

Billy and Tommy left with Push, planning to go to herhouse and fool around there, until it was time to meetthat evening. Phip and Bullethead started walkingtowards the parkway, trying to think of something tosay to each other.

"Man, tonight I'm gonna slice one of them motherslike he was a salami," Phip mumbled. "I'll spread himall over the park."

"Ya really gonna cut'im, Phip?"

"Shit, yeah. His own mother won't know him when I getthrough. You ain't never seen my blade, have ya?"

Phip held the long, black, shiny tube, naveled with agleaming silver button, in crooning, erotic fingers.With a soft caress, he brought the bright fang out ofits den. It sat in his hand like a blind snake,searching for prey.

"Awright, Phip. Put it away. There's people allaround and a cop could come along."

"Whatsa matter? You don't like my baby? She just comeout. She don't like it in the dark, just like you anme. Maybe I should tell her that you want her to goaway. Maybe I'll tell her you don't like her."

Bullethead was terrified of the menacing knife.

"Don't do that, Phip. Don't tell her that. I like herfine. I just don't want a cop ta see her an' take heraway from ya, that's all. You know I like her."

"No cop takes baby from me, not as long as she cantalk for me, like this." Phip made a quick slash andthen stabbed the air. Then he closed the knife with asnap and put it back in his pocket. Bullethead finallyrealized why Phip always had his right hand in hispocket and what it always held.

"I gotta go help my old man for a while, Phip. I'llsee ya later."

"Awright, Bullethead. Remember ta wear light, pointyshoes, so it's easy ta kick somebody in the nuts, orrun fast if ya gotta take off. Them boots that most athe guys wear is no good. Ya can't run in them an' yacan't kick with them. All they're good for is ta stompa guy, once ya got him down."

"Thanks for tellin' me. Play it cool."

"Play it cool. Jeez. Where did ya get that from?

You're real dumb."

Phip walked off, right hand in pocket, fingersrestlessly stirring, mumbling about what a jerkBullethead was. Bullethead went back to his father'sstore, into the apartment in back and lay down on hisbed, hands clasped behind his bristly head, thinkingabout the coming fight. The brief concentration ofthinking gradually started to fade, along with therhythmic, urgent hammering from the next room andsleep came on tiny, shy feet.

Bullethead woke up at six o'clock, ate some of thestew his mother had made for dinner and left thehouse. He headed for the Parkway to meet the gang. Itwas a warm, quiet evening, with night arching its backover Brooklyn like an indolent cat, stretching withpleasure. He saw the guys and hurried to join them.

"He's the lousy punk that does all the big talkin',too," Tom-Tom muttered.

"Forget him now," Pony snapped. "Listen, you guys.Here's the action. We go down to the park in fourgroups of five an' meet at the boat-house. After wemeet, I'll talk to the Mouse an' set it up for Phip.Now if it's a fair fight, nobody interferes, but ifthey try ta help their boy, get ta Phip in a hurry.Tom-Tom, Billy, Phip and Patsy go with me. The rest ofyou guys give each group five minutes before youleave. An' make sure you all get there."

Bullethead found himself in the last group, becauseno one else wanted him with them. The boys he was withdidn't speak to him directly and all the way to thepark they kept talking about the guys they knew whogot hurt in gang fights. By the time they got to theboathouse, Bullethead was tense and twitching. Hetried to stay close to Pony, but Pony kept shoving himout of the way. He desperately had to go to thebathroom, but was too self-conscious to go against theboathouse wall like the other boys. Then they saw theBops.

The Bops quietly appeared out of the dark shadowsbetween the trees and stopped about fifty feet fromthe Falcons. Pony walked toward them by himself andthe Mouse came out to meet him.

"Whadda ya say, Pony? How do we do it?"

"One of my boys wants ta have it out alone with oneof the guys who beat up his cousin."

"Who is it? Phip Manelli?"

"Yeah."

"Wait'll I talk it over with my boys."

The Mouse went back to his gang, while Pony stoodthere waiting like a patient farmer gazing over hisfields in the evening. The Falcons waited like hungrybirds of prey, eager to strike their enemies. Ponyjust stood there casual and relaxed, until the Mousecame back.

The four boys stood in the dim field like ancientchampions before their armies. Some of the tensionleft both gangs as it began to look as if therewouldn't be an all out battle. Nervous laughter flewback and forth, as the rivals yelled how their fighterwould win. It started slowly. Phip and Charliecircled each other, while the watchers became silent.Phip swung at Charlie with all his might, but missedand fell on the grass.

Charlie jumped on top of him and they started to rollback and forth, punching and kicking at each other.They fell apart, got to their feet and started circling again.

"Was it fair when four of you punks beat up mycousin?" Phip demanded. "This is gonna be for him."

Pony rushed at Phip and knocked the knife out of hishand, but the Bops thought that he was going to helpPhip, so they charged. The rest of the Falcons ran tomeet them, swinging their garrison belts. Four orfive Bops were knocked down by the Falcons charge,while the rest of the fighters moved back and forth,wildly punching and kicking. Bullethead kept kickingthe Bops who had already been knocked down.

One of the Bops got to his feet and pushed him.

Bullethead tried to get away, but he ran after him,

knocked him down, then kicked him in the stomach.

Bullethead lay there gasping for breath, tears coming

from his eyes and a trickle of blood running down his mouth.

By the time he got up again the fight was over.

The Bops had lost and were in full flight. But theFalcons were much too battered to chase them. Theypicked up whoever was still on the grass and headedfor the Parkway. By the time they got out of the parkmost of them were feeling a lot better and they walkedalong singing 'Barnacle Bill, the Sailor', as loud asthey could.

"Ya know, guys, I never knew Bobby could run sofast," Joey said, trying to divert attention from him.

"That's all right, Joey. He never knew you could layon your back so good," Tom-Tom responded.

"Did you guys see the big guy I knocked down?"Bullethead boasted.

"Hey. It's Bullethead," Phip yelled. "He's still withus."

"Did ya hit him with your pocketbook, Bullethead?"Tom-Tom asked.

"Let's pull his pants off," Joey proposed.

"Ah, come on guys. You're supposed to be my pals,"Bullethead pleaded.

"Hold his legs, Joey," Pony commanded.

"Hey, look at that. He's wearin' polka-dot drawers,"Tom-Tom yelled.

"Cut it out, guys. Don't take my pants off."

"You gotta show those drawers to the neighborhood,"Joey insisted, as he helped them remove Bullethead'spants.

"Throw them in a tree, Joey," Tom-Tom directed.

"Awright, there they go. Should we take his drawers,Pony?"

"Leave him his drawers, or he'll scrape his balls offwhen he climbs after his pants."

"Awright. Let's go ta Short-arms now," Tom-Tomsuggested.

"Yeah," Phip agreed. "Have fun, Bullethead."

"Don't catch cold," Joey called as they left.

The Falcons walked off, heading for Short-arm Louie'sto celebrate their victory, leaving Bulletheadstanding there in his polka-dot drawers. He waiteduntil they were gone, then he climbed the tree and gothis pants. Nobody saw him and he pulled his pants onand went home. Even though the guys had left him likethat, the words kept running through his head likescurrying mice, over and over:

"I'm one of the Falcons now. I'm one of the Falcons."

Bio: Gary Beck's recent fiction has appeared in 3AMMagazine, Fullosia Press, EWG Presents, NuveinMagazine, Vincent Brothers Review, The Journal, ShortStories Monthly, L'Intrigue Magazine, Babel Magazineand Bibliophilos. His poetry has appeared in dozens ofliterary magazines. His plays and translations ofMoliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have beenproduced Off Broadway. He is a writer/director ofaward-winning social issue video documentaries.